An Evening with Trebonius Artorius
by Snow in August
Summary: Just a bit of random exposition on everyone's least favorite incompetent twit of a Battlemage. Also my first story. Hi!


Brandy. Nothing like it. A man like him was supposed to have his mind on higher matters, grand celestial mysteries; right now it was gently fuzzing over with a comfortable growth of drunkenness, and that was quite alright. That was one of the benefits of being at the top of your organization: there was nobody there to scold you for your petty indulgences, and a man was free to destroy himself as much as he liked.

Vivec offered a lot of options for drinking, but Trebonius had never felt particularly comfortable drugging himself in public. He was a notable person, and that meant someone was likely to take note of him. It was when some soused Dunmer hedge wizard actually challenged him that he swore off other people, and began adding choice portions of Cyrodiilic brandy to the Imperial requisition sheets. And now he was enjoying the results, alone, in his comfortable, well-heated quarters. He had a trio of books he managed to con some underling into scrounging up that he could flip through if he cared to, but sometimes a man just wants to let the mind wander.

How had it come to this?

He kept trying to ignore that question, and it kept coming right back. His eyes chose that moment to focus, really focus on his surroundings. Sure, he had it good here, but nothing was ever quite familiar. His supper that evening had been an expertly prepared saute of giant crab and native greens, and yes, it was delicious, but some part of his being just couldn't register the stuff as food. His quarters were handsomely appointed, but windowless and buried in an impenetrable maze of a city. One of his greatest wishes, perhaps, was simply to open a window and smell the rain on the grass. Just what had he become?

He had been ambitious, he supposed. You had to be. You didn't get to this position unless you absolutely overmastered everyone else who wanted it, and by all the real gods, he had done it. He could not think of a single thing that was beyond his capability at the moment. If he wanted a man dead, it could not only be done, but done so neatly no one would even remember he existed. If he wanted a naked creature from a maddened otherworld to suddenly appear in his sheets, he could summon it into being. And what was his great ambition now? To go home, where things made sense.

Alas, he could not. Well, he probably could if he really wanted to be dramatic, but to what, and where? Back to the Arcane University to languish in significantly reduced comfort among the snickering of his peers? Ha. At least here, if his underlings talked, they did it behind his back. And if one of them actually decided to act up, he simply rendered them into a fine particulate. The whole deal was easy to maintain, kept his vices content, ate at his soul, and was on the whole tolerable. Which was the root of the problem, once you got down to it: what does a man do when nothing challenges him anymore?

Brandy. Beautiful stuff, really. The wonder of alcohol is the sheer universality of it. Everywhere in the known and unknown worlds, where creatures can think and act and be, they will find some way to get plastered. If you know where to apply the correct kind of currency, you can suck liquid bliss from the malformed teat of Euphoria herself. Or so he heard. You encountered the strangest rumors in this profession.

One hand on the stack of books, idly flipping through. Image after pointless image, completely decipherable symbols he couldn't care to decipher at the moment. What had he requested these things for, anyway? The language was Dwemer, so it must have had something to do with them. He couldn't remember at the moment, and didn't much care to. Off in the distance, in some other part of the building, whisper-quiet noises signalled teleportation, enchantment, actual whispering. He wondered if it was still light outside, and briefly considered boring a hole through the wall with a pillar of fire to find out, but the whole affair just seemed like too much effort.

Consciousness was too much effort. His body found the bed, and his mind lolled somewhere on the outer edge of sleep. Finally thinking of those grand celestial mysteries, old man? The shape of the known universe and what it bounds up against, the unreal beings, powers and secrets that a man has to absorb and direct every day? The abysmally accurate sensation that no one cares, it's all for nothing, and no one thinks you're doing a particularly good job anyway? Instead...

Instead, let the dreams run over him like rain over the hillside. Yes: outside it would be damp and freezing, but a small fire, perhaps with a teakettle on top, would be enough to keep the shivers away. Perhaps there would be a woman there, young but wise, and perhaps his little cell is located far out in the countryside, away from distraction. Perhaps there is brandy...


End file.
